Adagio
by Noctivagant Ghost
Summary: A successful infiltration required a degree of skill. What those skills were exactly was left up to debate.


Written for the prompt: "I really want an Atlas party/ball just so that Watts and Tyrian could infiltrate it and we just have scenes of them dancing together to stay covert, and it's just them being sassy with one another the entire time."

* * *

**Adagio**

"Can I offer you a refreshment, sir?"

Watts pretended to consider the outstretched tray of assorted drinks. "No, thank you. I'd like to keep a clear head this evening."

The server offered a polite bow. "Very practical, sir. Enjoy the party." They wasted no time in retreating from his presence and moving on to the next group of attendees, who didn't hesitate when plied with drinks. Watts watched through narrowed eyes as one guest managed to narrowly avoid sloshing the contents of their beverage onto their attire. A clear, high laugh from the onlookers followed, and he did his best to school his expression into one of polite disinterest rather than condescension.

He'd forgotten how much he detested the drudgery of these social gatherings.

Not that Watts was inclined to indulge, but as the hour crawled by, he felt his tolerance being nudged closer and closer toward the escape of blissful inebriation. Dulled senses seemed like a small price to pay if it meant not having to listen to another tipsy socialite asking for his opinion on the upcoming Council election.

(It seemed irrelevant, anyway, when all it would take was an intervention on his part for opinion to become fact. No point debating the preordained.)

But he needed his wits about him tonight. Orders were orders, and so his place was here, blending into a scene that for all its extravagance lacked any true depth. Preferring not the socialize if it could be helped, Watts turned to face the window, arms folded behind his back as he gazed upon Atlas' skyline.

The city itself was a resplendent monolith, of crystalline-steel infrastructure and star-piercing spires. The glow from the radial grid bathed the buildings in a glacial light that filled him with a nostalgic tranquility. Even with the glass separating him, he could imagine the crisp air burning in his lungs. Watts preferred to think himself above such pointless sentimentality, but once, this had been his home. His magnum opus. Such attachments were…difficult to sever.

Fortunately, he'd become quite adept at making tender cuts.

His introspection was disturbed by motion out of his periphery.

In the reflection of the window, Watts saw a figure enter through the arched gala doors. The newcomer sauntered through the mingling crowd, with a restless energy that to the unacquainted could be mistaken for nervousness. As it were, _predatory intent_ was the last thing they needed interfering with their operations. With a quiet sigh, Watts vacated the windows and moved to intercept him.

By the time Watts reached him, his companion had situated himself by the table of stacked hors d'oeuvres. Following his line of sight brought Watts' attention to a young man helping himself to food, unaware of the yellow eyes tracking him. There was a perceptible shift in his posture, in the pattern his fingers tapped against the stone column he leaned against. Before he'd taken more than a step toward the guest, Watts ensnared his wrist.

"Would you join me for a dance?" Watts asked.

Tyrian regarded the hand on his, his expression changing from one of surprised disappointment to delight in the span of a heartbeat. His lips curled. "I thought you'd never ask."

Watts guided his partner toward the center of the room, onto an unoccupied section of marble floor. A brief glance at the couples around them, and a quick listen to the time signature of the song, informed him of the expected style. Tyrian mimicked his motions, their left hands clasped, his right coming to rest atop Watts' shoulder. The room around them settled into an unfocused blur as they spun.

"Need I remind you," Watts said, in a careful undertone, "we're meant to be discreet. It becomes hard to maintain our cover when you've slaughtered half the guests."

Tyrian laughed—mercifully, at a pitch that was suitable for indoors. "That hardly seems like a fair accusation."

"You lack subtlety."

"And you looked painfully bored," Tyrian said. He let out a shuddering, hitched breath that warmed Watts' face. "You seemed in need of entertainment."

"And you thought to supply it?" Watts drawled. "How philanthropic of you."

They curved into a turn, their footsteps synchronized as they waltzed past a throng of onlookers. Tyrian bared his teeth, fingertips digging into his sleeve. A hint of menace dipped into his voice. "I prefer to think of it as a mutually beneficial arrangement."

Watts made a noncommittal sound at the back of his throat. The music swelled, and to his mild surprise Tyrian pivoted in time with the rhythm, coming to rest with his back pressed flush to his chest. Watts reacted, not so much in anticipation but on reflex, and glided back into formation, their hands still joined as they faced one another. The improvisation bespoke repurposed combat skills rather than any true experience in dancing, but it suited Watts all the same.

"It's a pity you never invest the effort into your presentation outside of these jobs," he commented, as they transitioned into another languid spin. He motioned to Tyrian's attire, a white undershirt and black blazer with gold accents along the seams, loosely-buttoned to expose his collarbone. "You clean up rather nicely. Though I'm surprised by the jacket. It doesn't seem like your taste."

Tyrian's eyelids fluttered shut, a display Watts had learned to recognize, one of him savoring some foul memory. "That's because I've borrowed someone else's _taste_ for the evening."

Ah. "I take it they'll be running late?" Watts asked.

"Let's just say they misplaced their invitation."

Watts inclined his head. "A pity indeed."

Contrary to what he'd implied, Watts trusted Tyrian's discretion where his…talents were concerned. He had expected some degree of collateral damage, and accounted accordingly. One innocuous death wouldn't jeopardize them.

As they moved Tyrian's eyes swept the room, taking stock of the people in attendance. "Any sign of our target?" he inquired.

Watts shrugged, and felt the hand on his shoulder tighten just shy of being painful. "Not yet, but it's still early. All we need to do is play the part until she arrives."

Tyrian laughed low under his breath. "That shouldn't be difficult for you."

Some of the lingering disdain from earlier colored his inflection. "Attended one soirée," Watts murmured, "attended them all. For all Atlas prides itself on innovation, the standards regarding decorum and conduct never change. You become accustomed to the atmosphere rather quickly."

"As I said"—Tyrian swept into another elaborate turn, with enough flourish to nearly bend their spines—"that shouldn't be difficult for _you_."

The implication didn't escape him, and Watts sighed. To think, he had foolishly assumed that conversation left behind them by now. "For the last time, your prosthesis wasn't negotiable. You would never have made it through that door if you'd brought it."

"Oh, I don't think getting in would have been an issue."

"Fine." Watts adjusted his grip. "Let me rephrase: you would never have made it through that door without setting off every alarm between here and Mantle."

The momentary unease abruptly cleared from Tyrian's expression. He doubled forward in response, in a peal of ominous laughter that was partially muffled by Watts' suit. "Had I known Faunus caused such a stir here I would have done that sooner. What a missed opportunity." He could feel the vibrations through the fabric, and it caused him to falter in their gait. His voice turned raspy, with relish for an itch no amount of bloodshed could ever scratch. "How disappointing to learn I've been underutilizing that asset."

"The tail would have turned some heads," Watts replied, relieved to find the music changed to a tempo that accommodated their slower pace. "But I believe security would have taken greater issue with the modifications I've made to it."

Tyrian craned his head up, just enough to regard him without actually moving. "Rather technophobic, for being Remnant's most scientifically-advanced kingdom," he mused.

Watts rolled his eyes. "It's _weaponized_, Tyrian. There's a distinction between a prosthetic limb and a prosthetic limb with combat augmentations."

"I like to think of that distinction as art," Tyrian purred. In a sinuous motion he slid upward, arms looping behind Watts and settling just above his waist. The new position no doubt looked intimate, their torsos pressed together and faces close enough he could feel the heat emanating from his skin. There was a quality to Tyrian's face, wanton, perhaps, Watts couldn't be entirely certain. He'd seen that manic focus bestowed upon others before, and it seldom ended well for them.

He'd yet to see that attention directed at himself.

This was—different.

Damning curiosity stayed Watts from pushing his partner away, a signal that only encouraged Tyrian further. He leaned forward, brushing past his face to settle his chin on Watts' shoulder. The sigh he let out ghosted across the side of his neck, and caused his pulse to stutter sharply beneath his skin.

"Such a _pity_ it had to be left behind," Tyrian breathed. "I think you'd have enjoyed the picture I would have painted for us."

Watts felt teeth graze his ear.

Then, just as suddenly, Tyrian retreated a fraction. Watts could feel the tension, the sudden excitement, coiling through his spine. "The little bird has finally come to roost," he whispered.

With a subtle bit of maneuvering the pair turned, allowing Watts to look toward the gala entryway. A young woman crossed the threshold, light-blonde hair styled into a modestly elaborate ponytail. Her outfit was distinct, a bodice atop a sleeved dress with green and white accents. She moved through the room with power and purpose, stopping only to swap pleasantries with another guest.

"So it would seem." Watts lingered on the words, an indulgent smirk slowly spreading across his face. "Let's go have a word with Miss Hill, shall we?"


End file.
